Willa had raced away from those hostile eyes and up the stairs to her sleeping room, with its tiny alcove crowded with her books, theater mementos, and two trunks of clothing. Safe inside the room, she'd thrown the bolt over and fallen on the bed, trembling. There she had lain listening for nearly an hour. At last, exhaustion had pulled her into sleep.
Now she heard the man in the hall tell the landlady, "You've got nothing to say about it. The girl's wanted for questioning about an assault on her employer." He pounded again. "Miss Parker!"
Willa hugged herself, not breathing.
The man shouted: "It's a police matter. I ask you one last time to open the door."
She was already dressed. A swift look into the dark alcove was her brief farewell to her few possessions. She snatched her shawl and raised the window. The man heard and started to break the door with his shoulder.
Fighting for breath, fighting terror, Willa climbed over the sill, lowered herself, holding on with both hands, then let go. She plunged downward through rainy blackness. An anguished cry went unheard as the door splintered and caved in.
"God — my God — I've never been through anything like this in my life, Eddie."
"There, there." He pulled her close to his shoulder. His velvet smoking coat had a nubby, comforting feel. While her clothes dried, she wore one of his robes, golden silk and quite snug; he was a small man. A strand of pale blond hair straggled across her forehead. Her bare legs rested on a stool in front of her. He'd wrapped her left ankle in a tight bandage. She had twisted it when she dropped to the alley, and she had been in pain as she hobbled all the way to his brownstone townhouse, Number 28 East Nineteenth Street.
"The policeman nearly caught me. Wood sent him, didn't he?"
"Undoubtedly," Booth said. He was thirty-two, slim and handsome, and had a rich voice critics called "a glorious instrument." His expressive eyes held a look of abiding pain.
Rain poured down on the townhouse and streaked its tall windows. It was half after One in the morning. Willa shivered in the silk robe as Booth continued. "Wood's a foul man. A discredit to our profession. He drinks far too much — on that habit I am an expert. Combine that with his temper and the result is catastrophic. Last year, he nearly crippled a gas-table operator who didn't light the stage precisely as he wanted it. Then there was his late wife —"
"I didn't know he was ever married."
"He doesn't talk about it, with reason. On a crossing for a London engagement, in heavy weather, she slipped and fell into the sea and disappeared. Wood was the sole witness, although a cabin steward later testified that on the morning of the mishap,
Helen Wood had bruises on her cheek and arm, which she'd attempted to cover with powder. In other words, he beat her."
"He can be such a charming man ..." Willa's words trailed off into a sigh of self-recrimination. "How stupid I was to be taken in!"
"Not at all. His charm fools a great many people." Booth patted her shoulder, then stood up. He wore black trousers and tiny slippers; his feet were smaller than hers. "You feel chilly. Let me bring you some cognac. I keep it, though I never touch it."
Nor did he take any other spirits, she knew. When Booth's wife, Mary, lay dying in 1863, he'd been too drunk to respond to pleas from friends that he go to her. That part of the past burdened him almost as much as the fatal night at Ford's Theater.
Willa stared at the rain while Booth poured cognac into a snifter and warmed it in his hands. "I'll slip out tomorrow and try to discover, what Wood's doing now that you have eluded the police." He handed her the snifter. The cognac went down with pleasing warmth and quickly calmed her churning stomach. "Meanwhile, I wouldn't count on his letting matters rest. Among his other wonderful traits is his talent for being vindictive. He has many friends among the local managers. He'll keep you from working in New York, at the very least."
Willa wiggled her bare toes. Her ankle hurt less now. In the fireplace, apple-wood logs crackled and filled the sitting room with a sweet aroma. While she sipped the cognac, Booth stared in melancholy fashion at a large framed photograph standing on a marble-topped table: three men wearing Roman togas. It was from the famous performance of November 1864, when he'd played Brutus to the Cassius and Antony of his brothers, Johnny and June, for one night.
She set the snifter aside. "I can't go back to Arch Street, Eddie. Mrs. Drew has a full company. She replaced me as soon as I gave notice."
"Louisa should have warned you about Wood."
"She did, indirectly. I wasn't alert to what she was trying to say. I have a lot of faults, and one of the worst is thinking well of everyone. Like John Evelyn's knight, I am 'not a little given to romance. It's a dangerous shortcoming."
"No, no, a virtue. Never think otherwise." He patted her hand. "Supposing New York is closed to you, is there somewhere else you can work?"
"Somewhere I can run to? Running is always the remedy that comes easiest to me. And I'm always sorry afterward. I hate cowardice."
"Caution is not cowardice. I remind you again, this is something more than a schoolyard quarrel. Think a moment. Where can you go?"
Forlorn, she shook her head. "There isn't a single — well, yes. There's St. Louis. I have a standing offer from one of Papa's old colleagues. You know him. You and Papa trouped with him in California."
"Sam Trump?" Finally Booth smiled. "America's Ace of Players? I didn't know Sam was in St. Louis."
"Yes, he's running his own theater, in competition with Dan DeBar. He wrote me about it last Christmas. I gather things aren't going well."
Booth walked to the windows. "His drinking, probably. It seems to be the curse of the profession." He turned. "St. Louis might be an ideal sanctuary, though. It's quite far away, but it's a good show town. It has been ever since Ludlow and Drake set up shop there in the twenties. You have the whole Mississippi valley for touring, and no competing playhouses until you reach Salt Lake City. I liked playing St. Louis. So did my father."
He stared out the dark window, smiling again. "Whenever he appeared there, he could always save a few pennies by hiring bit players from the Thespians, a fine amateur company. Unfortunately, he just spent the pennies for one more bottle." He shook off the memory. "More to the point, Sam Trump's a decent man. He'd be a successful actor if he hadn't gone overboard for Forrest's physical technique. Sam turned the heroic style into a religion. He doesn't tear a passion to a tatter; he shatters it beyond repair —"
Another thoughtful pause, then a nod. "Yes, Sam's theater would do nicely. Who knows? You might even straighten him out."
Exhausted and unhappy, Willa, said, "Must I decide right now?"
"No. Only when we find out what Wood's up to. Come." He extended his hand in a smooth, flowing move worthy of a performance. "I'll show you to your room. A long sleep will help immensely."
On the way out, he glanced at Johnny's picture again. Poor Eddie, she thought, still hiding from the world because so many bayed for revenge, even though Johnny had been tracked down and shot to death near Bowling Green, Virginia, almost two months ago. Thinking of Booth's plight instead of hers helped her fall asleep.
She woke at two the next afternoon to find her friend gone. The skies outside were still stormy. A light meal of fruit, floury Scotch baps, and jam was set out downstairs. She was eating hungrily when his key rattled and he walked in, looking rakish in his slouch hat and opera cloak, and carrying an ebony cane.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. Wood swore out a warrant. I'll buy your ticket and advance you some traveling money. You don't dare visit your bank. Or your lodgings."